Sweating with the oldies

Men just don't understand why sometimes it's okay to hate.

With a renewed sense of determination to battle the bulge (for the 4 billionth time in my life) I went for a walk this morning. It's supposed to be sticky hot today with storms in the afternoon, so I thought an early morning jaunt would be prudent.

I choose a pair of knee-length yoga pants and a baseball style top I haven't worn in a few years that's easily two sizes too big now. Which sounds good and all, but I myself am still way more than too sizes too big. And bigger than I was just a few months ago when I gave up on Weight Watchers and began the summer of comfort food. And inactivity.

But I digress...

I covered my bedhead with one of my Beloved's Baseball hats, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out.

I should comment on the hat. I have a giant head. Sometimes My Beloved jokes that I could capture my own moon. He's sooooooo funny like that.

Hats rarely fit me. Baseball hats are the worst. They perch awkwardly on my head unless I squeeze them down into place. This leaves me lightheaded. And, worse than that, it's totally obvious that I've squeezed my humongous melon inside with absolutely no room to spare. Flapping ears, and all that.

Today I didn't care. My new haircut made the hat look slightly less ridiculous on me and, if the Superman comics are to be believed, the glasses completely disguised me.

I confidently strode down to the pond near our house, feeling empowered and motivated. There's a path around the pond that's about a half a kilometer in length, and I figured that early in the morning I'd likely have it all to myself.

I decided to do three laps before heading home.

Almost halfway through my last lap I spotted her. A runner. She burst onto the track across the pond in a little racing bra and short shorts.

I had wanted the solitude, but was admittedly a little grateful to see another person on the track. There are some isolated bits that make me a little nervous. There's a lot of paranoia in my gigantic head.

I continued to walk, undaunted by the runner.

Until she passed me.

She looked different close up. Better. Tiny. Perfect.

She was roughly the size of my left leg and every inch of her was evenly tanned (I could tell because there was just so very much skin to see). The word "FLIRT" was printed across her firm, peach-shaped butt and her long, silky ponytail swished with every step she took.

The "phhhst phhst phhhst phhst" of those steps was in stark contrast to the lumbering "thwunk thwunk thwunk thwunk" of my own (which, until she passed, had been music to my ears).

I took stock of the figure I cut plodding along the track. Too big shirt. Ruthlessly unforgiving yoga pants. Giant head mashed into a baseball cap. Tomato red face dripping with sweat. Hair frizzed up and poking out from under the cap like a 1970s baseball player.

And yeah, I hated her a bit.

I realize this is unfair. It would make much more sense to hate myself instead (although there's certainly some of that at play here. Clearly), but I chose to loathe her instead. Her and her flirty butt and itty bitty little waist flitting around the track like a wispy, perfect little butterfly.

My Beloved laughed when I told him my sweaty tale of woe, and asked why I would think to hate the perfect little jogger.

Men.